Scene of Crime

by Jill McGown

  “Take your time, Dr. Bignall,” Lloyd said automatically, as he tried to visualize what might have happened in here tonight. It didn’t really add up.

  “It’s all right,” said Bignall. “It just sort of hit me.”

  “I know,” said Lloyd. “Can you remember what any of the other presents were?”

  “Jazz CDs for my brother. They were remastered twenties recordings. And I got a handbag for Estelle.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “It was black leather. With a flap that folded over the zipped part. And it had a purse in it.” He looked at Lloyd. “Is this all worth it?” he asked. “Do you really think they’re going to turn up? I mean—who’d be stupid enough to try and sell anything after something like this?”

  Most of them were stupid enough, thought Lloyd. But they probably had no idea what had happened to Estelle Bignall after they left her, so if these items had been stolen, someone would be trying to sell them. If they had been stolen. He wasn’t happy about this. Not happy at all.

  Bignall told him what he could remember of the presents, and then looked around the room, sorting out what was missing. “I think that’s the lot,” he said. “Oh—there was a little jade cat there.” He pointed to a shelf on which books were scattered.

  PC Sims added that to the list he had been making of the missing items as Bignall had noticed them, and handed it to Lloyd. Apart from the Christmas presents, there was a piggybank with loose change in it, a table lamp, a clock, and two candlesticks in modern wrought-iron. None of it was worth very much, as Bignall had pointed out, and everything was taken from the dining room. They were all small and portable; the other break-ins in the area had been more ambitious. Televisions, hi-fis, computers, even furniture.

  “I believe you said that your wife had to cancel an engagement tonight?” Lloyd said.

  “Her writer’s group,” said Bignall. “She joined it because—” He broke off. “Well, because she wanted to share my interest in writing. And she found she enjoyed it—she went every Monday.”

  “And who would know that the house was usually empty on Mondays?”

  “Everyone who knows us, I suppose.” He frowned. “You don’t imagine it was someone we knew, do you?”

  “No,” said Lloyd. “But the more people who did know the house was empty, the more likely it is that the burglars got to hear about it.”

  Tom came in then, and indicated that he wanted to speak. Lloyd excused himself, asked Bignall to tell Constable Sims if he remembered anything else that should be there and wasn’t, and went out into the hallway, where he got the gist of Tom’s interview with Watson, and his opinion of the man.

  “He’s ex-job, guv. He was with the Welchester County force for eighteen years, but he seemed a bit iffy to me, so I checked him on the computer, and he’s done time for actual bodily harm. Ten years ago, mind—and nothing since, but I’d swear he’s lying. He says he saw nothing, and that he thought it was kids messing around because there were some here earlier on, but none of the other neighbors saw or heard them if there were. I think he’s trying to put us off the scent.”

  Lloyd nodded. “I think there’s more to this than we’re being invited to believe,” he said. There must be, he thought. His dictum that things were not always what they seemed usually had little effect on Tom, who was firmly of the entirely reasonable belief that mostly they were. He handed Tom the list of the missing items. “Get that circulated for the night shift. And show it to any of your informants who might prove useful. If any of these things turn up tonight, we need to know.”

  Tom went off again, and Lloyd knocked on the kitchen door, going in to find the body being zipped into a bag, and Freddie just packing up.

  The body was taken out the back; Lloyd walked with Freddie to where his car was parked at the front. The rain was holding off, but everything was still gleaming in the streetlights. “Well?” he said.

  “Well, she died from asphyxiation, and she died within the last two or three hours—say between six and nine P.M.” Freddie beamed at him then. “But it’s an interesting one,” he said.

  For once Lloyd didn’t get the sinking feeling he usually got when Freddie spoke these words, because he had gotten that the moment he walked into the Bignalls’ house. “You don’t think she died as the result of being gagged,” he said.

  Freddie’s face fell. “How did you know?”

  Lloyd smiled. “Because if she had, then it wouldn’t be interesting, would it? Simple logic, Freddie.”

  “You’ve spent too long with Judy Hill,” grumbled Freddie. “Logic’s her line, not yours—you’re all flights of fancy and imagination. Why aren’t you glowering at me Welshly like you usually do when I indicate that things could be less than straightforward?”

  “Because I hoped you were going to find something interesting. Otherwise I think someone might get away with murder.”

  Freddie looked impressed, for once. Lloyd couldn’t remember ever having impressed Freddie.

  “You’ll want to know my reasons for believing she didn’t suffocate as a result of being gagged.”

  No, Lloyd couldn’t say he did. He had to know, but that wasn’t the same thing as wanting to know. He would happily live the rest of his life not knowing; he would be delighted simply to take Freddie’s word for it. But he couldn’t do that.

  “I wondered a little when I saw the gag. I spoke to Constable Sims—asked him exactly what that handkerchief had felt like when he removed it from the victim’s mouth. And he said it felt slightly damp. Now,” Freddie said, looking as eager and enthusiastic as only Freddie could, “if someone stuffs something in your mouth and you are unable to breathe through your nose, you are automatically attempting to breathe through the obstruction. And that causes saliva to build up in the material, making it more and more dense—it thus becomes ever more difficult to get any air, and that’s why you suffocate. And when the obstruction is removed, it is soggy. Not slightly damp.”

  “Right,” said Lloyd, hoping that was as much detail as he’d be given.

  “But of course, not having removed it myself, I’m not really in a position to draw any conclusions from that on its own. There are lots of ifs and ands. One man’s slightly damp could be another man’s wringing wet, she could have died very soon after being gagged, the handkerchief was lying on the floor for some time before I ever saw it, and so on. It’s suggestive, no more. But …”

  It was a full-blown lecture. Lloyd wished he could sit down.

  “… I can’t see anything that would have prevented her breathing through her nose.”

  “Her husband said she had a cold in the head,” Lloyd pointed out.

  “Did he? I didn’t see any evidence of that, but again, that isn’t worth much on its own. Just a temporary problem with breathing through her nose could have done the trick.”

  All the same, thought Lloyd, it was interesting. If she didn’t really have the sniffles, why did he say she had?

  “She was facedown when Sims found her,” Freddie went on. “That on its own could have given her a problem breathing, and panic plays a part the moment breathing becomes difficult. But I’m puzzled about why she was lying facedown—there seems to be no reason why she couldn’t have rolled over onto her back in order to attempt to make breathing easier. Taken in conjunction with the slightly damp handkerchief, the accidental nature of her death begins to look a little suspect.”

  It was Lloyd’s turn to be impressed. “All that before you’ve even opened her up,” he said. “They’ll be giving you a gold star.”

  “There’s more,” said Freddie. “The injuries to her wrists show that she struggled frantically to get free. But there are no bruises to her lower legs, which you would expect if he had to hold her down in order to tape up her ankles. And the gag—if he was stuffing something in her mouth, you would expect her to resist, move her head, try to bite him—he should have had to hold her still, exerted a lot of pressure while he got her mouth open, bu
t there are only two small bruises on either side of her jaw, and none to her mouth or face. These inconsistencies all begin to add up.”

  “To what, exactly?”

  “Exactly? Sorry—I can’t give you a definite answer, certainly not tonight. I don’t believe she died trying to breathe through that handkerchief. I doubt if she was conscious, or possibly even alive, when she was gagged or when her feet were bound. But unless she died some other way altogether, it’s unlikely that I can prove that, and I could be wrong. It’s a pity the gag was removed, or I would be on stronger ground.”

  “Are you saying you think she was murdered?” asked Lloyd. It was rare indeed for Freddie to go out on a limb.

  “I’m saying it’s possible she was asphyxiated in some other way. It might be an idea to collect any pillows, cushions—that sort of thing—for forensic examination.”

  “I’ll arrange for that,” said Lloyd, and then he thought about that. What if this intruder hadn’t disturbed Estelle Bignall? What if he got into her bedroom with the intention of carrying out a sexual assault? Lloyd hadn’t understood why Estelle Bignall had to be bound and gagged just because she’d interrupted the intruder. Perhaps the burglary was incidental and the real motive had been sexual. He asked Freddie about that.

  “I’ve taken swabs, of course, but there’s no reason to suspect sexual assault.”

  And there was the violent altercation that Jones heard; Lloyd wondered even more about that now. “Does it look as though she was physically assaulted at all? Slapped, punched, whatever?”

  Freddie looked doubtful. “She struggled to get her hands free,” he said. “He might have hit her to make her more cooperative, I suppose, but there’s nothing obvious apart from the two bruises on the jaw, and they were more likely to be caused by someone holding onto her than by hitting her. No facial bruising, as I said. No body blows.”

  “Might she have bruised him—scratched him?”

  “If someone heard a scuffle, she might have kicked him, but her feet were bare, so I doubt that she made much impression on him. She’s small and slight—I doubt that she gave her assailant much trouble, even if she tried. We might get something from under her fingernails, but I doubt it. I think he tied her up before she had a chance to do any damage.”

  Lloyd sighed. Doubt was a word he could do without in an investigation, and pathologists used it all the time. Freddie had just used it three times in one utterance. “Anything else?” he asked.

  “Mm. She was gagged with a matching tie and handkerchief. Very chic.”

  Lloyd groaned. “I’d like to think that you crack jokes in order to make your job bearable,” he said. “But I think you crack jokes because you’re enjoying yourself.”

  Freddie beamed. “I am enjoying myself,” he said. “I’ve never made any bones about it. Or cartilage, or muscle …”

  “Yes, yes,” said Lloyd. “I’ve got it, thank you.”

  “But I wasn’t simply cracking a joke about the tie and hankie. I was drawing your attention to something I thought you might find interesting.”

  “It’s late, Freddie.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose her assailant was wearing a matching tie and handkerchief, do you? In fact, if I think of all the men I know, I don’t believe any of them wears a matching tie and handkerchief. We’ve all got them, of course, because at this time of the year we’re knee-deep in them—”

  “You’re saying it was a present,” Lloyd said, his eyes widening. “A present to Carl Bignall. And it would be under the tree in the dining room. So if the assailant removed it from the box, and left the box where it was, the SOCOs will have taken it, and his prints might still be on it.” But wherever this struggle had taken place, it hadn’t been in the neat, undisturbed kitchen. He frowned. “Why was she in the kitchen?” he asked rhetorically. Then a question to which he did want an answer. “Did she die in there?”

  “She could have,” said Freddie. “But she needn’t have.”

  “Thank you, Freddie,” Lloyd said.

  “I’m sorry, Lloyd, but it’s only in fiction that the pathologist can tell you that she was really killed in the orchard and her body was moved to the gazebo. If someone’s been dead a long time before they were moved, the stasis bruising can sometimes indicate movement of the body, but in this case …” He shrugged. “If she wasn’t killed in the kitchen, she was moved shortly after she died—and since she was found shortly after she died, that’s not telling you very much. I might have something to tell you when I’ve opened her up—if she was strangled rather than smothered, for instance.”

  Lloyd frowned. “Wouldn’t that have left marks on her neck?”

  “Not necessarily. If he used his forearm, or something soft and wide. It could just possibly account for those little bruises on her jaw. It’s a long shot. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “But for the moment …” He smiled. “I’m going home.”

  Freddie’s usually open-top sports car had its winter bonnet on; he had to open the door rather than jump over it, and Lloyd was entertained by the sight of Freddie folding himself into it. He roared off down the road, no doubt waking those residents who had finally managed to get to sleep, and Lloyd went back in to the house, asked someone to gather up anything in the way of pillows or cushions, then went into the sitting room.

  He let Sims go back to his normal duties, apologized to Carl Bignall for the interruption, and tested Freddie’s theory. “Can I ask, Dr. Bignall, did someone give you a matching tie and hankie set?”

  “Yes,” said Bignall, looking puzzled. “An aunt of mine sends me the same thing every year.”

  “And it was under the tree, unwrapped?”

  “Yes. Why are you asking?”

  Lloyd decided there was little point in sparing his feelings, which had already taken a bashing and would hardly notice another blow. “It looks as though that’s what was used to gag your wife.”

  Bignall shook his head. “I don’t think I can react anymore,” he said.

  “Dr. Bignall, are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to go to friends or something? The scene-of-crime people are going to be here for some time.”

  Bignall looked as though he was about to insist on staying where he was, but instead he gave a little nod. “You’re right,” he said. “I can’t stay here. Denis offered to take me in.”

  “I can give you a lift there, if you’d like.”

  “Thank you. I’ll just call and let Meg know I’m coming.”

  Denis finished the tea that had been pressed on him and stood up. “He’ll be fine, Mrs. Gibson,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll feel a lot better after a good night’s sleep.”

  According to Dexter, he had fallen down a flight of steps, and his mother had apparently believed that. He hadn’t fallen down steps, of course; Denis told Mrs. Gibson that in his opinion Dexter had been in a fight, or something. He had tried to discover the truth, but without success. It was more likely that Dexter had been beaten up, he thought, since it didn’t seem he’d done much in the way of retaliation. He had spoken to Dexter and touched on the possibility of a racial attack, but the boy could not be moved. Dexter said he’d fallen down some steps.

  Mrs. Gibson got up and saw him to the front door. “Is Dr. Bignall all right?” she asked. “When I called he sounded a bit odd.”

  Denis was about to fob her off with a noncommittal answer, but the woman worked for Carl and Estelle; he had to tell her what had happened.

  She listened in shocked silence. “That’s terrible,” she said. “Just terrible. There was no need for that—what could she have done to them? She wasn’t the size of tuppence.”

  Denis almost smiled at that description, coming as it did from someone who was hardly what he would describe as robust. “I don’t think they meant it to happen,” he said. “I think they were just trying to keep her from phoning the police, or running out to get help.”

  “I can’t believe it,” she said. “I can’t.”

  No. Neither could he,
until now. Now that he found himself actually telling someone.

  Mrs. Gibson shook her head. “Please,” she said, “if you’re speaking to Dr. Bignall, please tell him—” She broke off. “I don’t know,” she said. “Just tell him I’m so sorry.”

  “Did you and your wife have a row tonight, Dr. Bignall?”

  Carl felt as though he’d been slapped. The man was supposed to be giving him a lift, not questioning him. He’d been about to tell him there had been a bit of a scene, but what was he? Some sort of mind reader?

  “Well … no. Not exactly. How do you know that?”

  “The neighbors overheard.”

  That was impossible. They couldn’t have overheard. But why would Lloyd lie about a thing like that? “They couldn’t have,” he said.

  “Why’s that?”

  Carl felt bewildered. First the glove, now this. “It—It wasn’t a row. Not really. More a discussion. And it wasn’t like that—we didn’t raise our voices.”

  “Oh? So what sort of discussion was it?”

  He sounded much more Welsh than he had before. And Carl knew he didn’t believe him. Again. He thought they’d had some sort of shouting match that the neighbors had heard. What on earth made him think that?

  “It was—oh, I don’t know what you’d call it. It wasn’t a row. I really don’t think the neighbors could possibly have heard us.”

  “And when did it take place, whatever it was?”

  “Just before I left the house.”

  “Which was when?”

  “Half past seven.”

  There was a silence.

  Carl sighed. “And you’re wondering how come I didn’t get to the rehearsal until twenty-five to nine,” he said. “Since the Riverside Center is twenty minutes away from my house.”

  “I would like to know where you were,” said Lloyd.

  “Driving around. I couldn’t face going to the theater and dealing with Marianne’s melodramatics about half the cast being absent—I just drove round to sort myself out a bit. And then I realized I was letting Marianne down, and I went to the theater.”